


Reach A Peace

by duckbunny



Series: Camaraderie [11]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Asexual Character, Consensual Kink, Impact Play, M/M, Masochism, No Sex, Non-Sexual Kink, Platonic BDSM, Sadism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-02
Updated: 2016-02-02
Packaged: 2018-05-17 21:19:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5885578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/duckbunny/pseuds/duckbunny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Laurens, I am holding a fucking riding crop.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Washington sends all his aides on errands now and then. He's not a stupid man, he knows how it chafes at them to be kept penned up with their pens, even if Hamilton weren't pestering him for a command every week. He just can't run the war without them. So once in a while he'll find a reason to send one of them off with something, and if it's always a task that needs doing, it's not something he couldn't find a less-useful pair of hands to do. They know it, but they never decline the chance to get out from his shadow.

Much rarer is the opportunity to get away together, so when Laurens is called in on a fine spring afternoon and told to “get those drill books where they're going, and take one of the others with you, I want two pairs of eyes on the state of the troops,” he doesn't argue. He knows he shouldn't take Hamilton – it will leave no French translators on the staff – but General Washington was not specific and that is close enough to permission. He drops a note on Hamilton's desk – _finish up, we're taking a ride_ – because if he says it aloud he might get overruled. Hamilton reads it at once, and his eyes go dark.

Before the hour is up they're riding out of camp, precious hand-copied documents strapped behind their saddles. They have raised and dropped their tiny tent so often it takes next to no discussion now, just a word or two to keep themselves coordinated. Hamilton looked like he begrudged even that much. Laurens would worry that Hamilton was offended, but he could have passed the duty off as easily as anything, for the same reason Washington probably would have forbidden them both to go. That suggests another, far more interesting reason for his silence.

Once they're safely alone on the road, Laurens sits up a little straighter and rolls his shoulders. It's plausible, he thinks, that he could be doing it to relieve aching muscles. But it makes Hamilton hiss sharply between his teeth.

Laurens looks sidelong at him, where he rides a little short of abreast. Where, upon reflection, he will have the best view of Laurens' antics. “Is there something the matter?”

Hamilton is visibly gritting his teeth. It makes Laurens giddy – Hamilton cannot control himself once he begins speaking, and he knows it. Holding his tongue entirely is the only defence he has, and he does not make the effort to do it unless he is forced to. Only when he fears what he might say.

Laurens wants very much to know what he might say, but the habit of secrecy is strong. He doesn't quite dare to open the subject. He only takes the chance, as soon as the road turns and the lowering sun is full on their backs, to shed his jacket. Hamilton makes a strangled noise and knees his horse forward, to ride stiffly ahead and refuse to look back.

Hamilton is actually muttering under his breath. That's nothing unusual. He does that all the time, when he's drafting letters or translating or planning essays on the march. Laurens is used to ignoring him, but under the circumstances – he's straining to hear, and it's maddening to catch what sounds like his own name and nothing to give it context. It has been so long since they had some privacy. Surely Hamilton is feeling it too.

 

They ride for nearly an hour before Hamilton yields and looks back, his eyes dark. Laurens feels it like a fish-hook under his ribs, a leash between them. He tries to smirk back, but it's hard to smirk properly when he wants to duck his head and blush. He settles for kneeing his horse gently, while Hamilton reins his in and they finally ride side-by-side.

“How far have we to go?”

“Less than a day's ride,” Laurens says, “but we set off so late, we won't reach camp tonight. Before noon tomorrow, I should think, if we make good time.”

Hamilton's soft “Ha!” is less satisfied than hungry. “Then we shall have to camp overnight.”

“I'm afraid so. I do apologise for the inconvenience, but General Washington gave clear instructions to bring a companion on the errand.”

“And why did you choose me, dear Laurens?” Hamilton's voice is silken, betraying how much of a game this is. He knows exactly why, but his look is arch.

“Oh, Christ,” Laurens says, “you're going to make me say it, aren't you?” He licks his lips, making Hamilton wait as much as gathering his own courage, and finally says quietly, “I want you to hurt me.”

Hamilton bares his teeth. “Well, then. Since you have been so clever as to get us out of earshot, I think that may be arranged. With perhaps something better than my hands this time.”

“I like your hands,” Laurens says without thinking.

“Still. I have something more effective in mind.”

“I don't see what, unless you intend to lay about me with your belt.”

“Laurens, I am holding a fucking riding crop.”

“ _Oh_.”

 

By mutual consent, they make camp at sunset, before the dusk can draw in, turning off the road to find a spot more secluded – in case of enemy forces, of course. Laurens pickets the horses, expecting Hamilton will make a start on the tent, but when he returns he finds it abandoned on the ground with their packs. It throws him off balance just enough to be completely unprepared for the rough hand around his throat.

He's pulled off balance, bent awkwardly backwards. Hamilton's hand – it must be Hamilton, it cannot be an ambush, surely – does not choke him, not quite, but it could. His arm is twisted behind him before he has worked out how to respond and he hangs there, caught, waiting for the teeth or the knife. He breathes fast, feeling how easy it would be for Hamilton to break him like this. The moment stretches, Laurens struggling to keep his feet, tense with anticipation; then he is released and Hamilton says lightly, “Shall we pitch camp, then?”

Laurens gapes at him. Arguing seems both futile and humiliating. He takes up his end of the canvas instead and tries to get his breathing under control.

 

Hamilton doesn't fucking _stop_.

Laurens is crouched on the ground, untangling a loop of cord at the edge of the canvas; then Hamilton's hand is gripping the back of his neck; then Hamilton has moved on to the next task as though he'd done nothing at all. He tugs at Laurens' hair in passing. He says “Hand me that peg,” and then he grabs Laurens' wrist and holds it, pulls the peg from his fingers before he lets go. It's _torture_.

They eat cold bread and cheese in the gathering twilight, Laurens choking down his share without enjoyment. It sticks in his throat. He's only eating because Hamilton put it in his hands and said “Eat,” with an edge that made it an order, and he doesn't like how well it worked. It's just that the thought of rebelling seems so exhausting.

He grabs both their canteens as soon as he's finished and stamps down to the stream. The water is icy on his skin but he splashes his face with it anyway, drinks slowly from his cupped hands. It doesn't help much, but at least it provides an excuse for his shivering.

He crawls into the tent – it's too low to the ground to do anything else – to find both their blankets laid down the centre and Hamilton lighting a third candle. It's a relief, if he's honest with himself. He'd begun to worry that Hamilton meant to do nothing but torment him.

“Take your shirt off.”

Laurens hesitates. “Why should I? You've hardly given me reason to indulge you.”

“Oh, then don't, I'm sure you brought me out here for conversation.”

“ _Hamilton_ ,” he starts, but it's all wrong, he doesn't want to win this. Wants, just for once, not to have to fight first. “Alexander, you're a God-damned tease.”


	2. Chapter 2

“Alexander, you're a God-damned tease.”

Hamilton finally looks at him properly. His cheeks are too tanned to flush, but there is a wildness about his eyes. “I know,” he says. “Do you want me to stop?”

Laurens considers it for, oh, about half an instant before he blurts out, “Of course not, please don't – I want you to _finish_.” Hamilton takes a slow, shuddering breath at that, as though he were fighting to control himself. He reaches out and fingers the edge of Lauren'sjacket.

“Please,” Hamilton says quietly. “Let me have this. Tell me no and you can have whatever you want from me, but please, if you can. Let me go slow. Tomorrow the war will catch us up again and we must go with it, but tonight, just for these few hours… Let me savour it?”

Laurens wants to find it tempting to refuse. He'd prefer that, to feel he had control over himself, had the strength to treat this as a medicine to settle his temper. Perhaps it started that way, before Hamilton worked his way in and found every crack in his walls. But what he feels is a shivery nervousness, under the heat of Hamilton's stare, and rather than meet it he shrugs carefully out of his jacket.

Hamilton doesn't try to touch him yet. He lets Laurens strip down to the waist, watches him fold his jacket and waistcoat and set them aside. The air is not cold, but Hamilton starts when Laurens reaches skin and moves past him to lace the flaps of the tent snug against the draft. It makes him tremble a little, though he doesn't understand why. He's on his knees now, his boots set aside to keep them from soiling the blankets or his breeches. Hamilton sits in front of him and for a moment rests his forehead against Laurens' and breathes, his eyes closed.

Then at last he works his hand into Laurens' hair, right against his skull, and _pulls_.

Laurens sighs into it. Hamilton doesn't yank his head around; it's holding him up as much as pulling back. The shivers dissolve away under the pressure, just short of pain and impossible to fight. There are gentle fingers on his arm, and oh, he had almost forgotten what it was like to feel Hamilton be gentle with him, the glorious moment when the hand on his wrist is light and the teeth are _hard_. The first bite is high, on the soft skin under his elbow, and Laurens pants sharply, trying to hold still. Then Hamilton goes back to teasing, nipping at him, drawing out the sensations until Laurens is squirming with need instead of pain. He almost collapses forward when the second real bite finally comes, on the muscle of his thumb where he'll feel it for hours, but Hamilton's grip on his hair is unwavering.

The bites come quicky after that, layering together. He loses count, as the hand in his hair shifts to the back of his neck and the pain flares through him, over and over. Hamilton tugs gently on his shoulders.

“Lie down,” he says thickly, “lie down, dear fellow, you're shaking -”

“Am I? I don't mind, don't stop -”

“I'm not stopping. Just lie down, on your front, there, and I'll put the blanket over your legs and then we shall be all set to put bruises on your shoulders.”

Hamilton's weight is wonderful, solid and warm and heavy, something like a trap and something like safety. His mouth is better, making Laurens whimper into the shelter of his folded arms and long to see the marks he is leaving, along the ridge of muscle over the shoulder. Hamilton strokes the bruised skin slowly, rubbing against the tender places, and bends down to set one more harsh bite at the base of Laurens' shoulder blade.

“Oh, _Alexander_ , that's not fair,” he chokes, “fuck, _fuck_.”

“Why is it not fair?” Hamilton asks, and his voice is as shaky as Laurens' own.

“Because I can't _see_ it if you mark me there.”

“Neither can I, once your shirt is on tomorrow, I think it's perfectly fair.” He strokes lightly down Laurens' spine and Laurens arches up into his hand, hoping for a touch of his fingernails. He is not disappointed. The blunt scraping is hard enough to feel more like heat than pressure and wake up every inch of his skin, long curving scratches over his ribs and along the line of his back. He could take more, he wants more, but Hamilton does not work him up too far, stops before his moaning can change to whimpers. Laurens turns his head to see him, hair falling loose around his face, eyes glittering, and Hamilton reaches underneath the blankets and pulls out the long-promised riding crop.

Fuck.

He'd forgotten that was coming. Hamilton's grin is wicked. “I have wanted to do this for _years_.”

“Years?”

“Since we left New York, at least.” Hamilton isn't hitting him yet, just running the leather tag lightly over his skin. Laurens' muscles twitch unbidden but he's not going anywhere, not until he knows what this feels like. “At least since then. God, John, you've no idea how much I've wanted this. Wanted to see you like this, waiting for me, _hurting_ for me. You make those noises and I can't breathe. The way you look. So let me be perfectly clear,” and suddenly he's pulling Laurens' hair again and hissing into his ear, “unless you tell me to stop I am going to beat the _shit_ out of you.”

Laurens moans, and Hamilton _growls_ , and the first snap of the crop makes him jerk helplessly away.

It's the noise as much as the pain. He doesn't think it was hard, not yet, though the impact is sharp against his skin. But the sound of it, the leather snapping into him – he bites his lip but even so he hears himself moaning, low and broken.

Hamilton gives him a moment to recover before the next blow, and the next, and the next. Then they begin to run together, the sharp stinging impacts travelling across his shoulders, Laurens fists his hands in the blanket and closes his eyes. He can hear Hamilton panting harshly, far harder than the work he's doing should justify, and the _snap-snap-snap_ of the crop against his back, and sometimes he can hear himself whimpering. He feels weightless, his back burning. Hamilton's hand startles him into whimpering again, ticklishly gentle over his tender skin, but then it is fingernails scratching and he arches up into it.

“Harder,” he gasps, “more, please, don't stop don't stop yet-”

“Ask nicely.”

“Please, Alexander, please don't stop, I need you.”

Hamilton scratches him again, one long rake along his spine, and Laurens trembles with how hard he's pushing up into the sensation. The next blow from the crop is harder, much harder, bright white pain flaring up and Hamilton waits, lets the lingering fire settle before he strikes again. The rhythm is slower now, every impact shaking through him.

“I'm going to treasure this,” Hamilton says shakily, “the way you look right now. The way – do you even know you're doing it? - the way you nod every time, to tell me it's time to hit you again. The sound it makes. The sounds _you_ make, God, John, that you let me do this to you, that I get to hear you, you're going to haunt my dreams. The fucking marks on you, Christ.”

Laurens pants raggedly. He hadn't noticed he was nodding, not until Hamilton said, but now it's deliberate. It's harder every time. His back is stinging from the ribs on up and Hamilton is hitting him so hard and every blow makes him whimper and flinch away. He swallows after the next strike, when Hamilton has run silent, and says hoarsely, “Six more.”

Hamilton's hand on his back is far too gentle. “Are you sure?”

“Six more, damn you, make me take it, don't you fucking back out on me now.” He's not sure, except that he doesn't want to have to shake his head and cry halt; they'll finish this without mercy. The last blows are fierce, alternating between his shoulders, and he's helpless to hold still or choke back his cries.

He lies still for long moments afterwards, panting into the darkness of his closed eyes. Hamilton hardly moves, only sets the crop down and lies alongside him. Laurens listens to them both, their breathing ragged and out of rhythm, until it occurs to him to unwind his clenched fingers from the blanket's edge. Hamilton strokes his hair, slow and soothing, and after a minute or two more he realises he could roll onto his side. The movement puts their bodies flush, Hamilton curling warm and solid against his back. He rolls his shoulders a little and Christ, Hamilton's shirt against his skin _hurts_. He whimpers happily and does it again.

Hamilton is moving, but it's only to pull the blanket up and settle Laurens' jacket beneath them as a pillow. Then he is close again and his arm over Laurens, their hands lacing together. “All well?” he asks softly.

“Don't let go,” Laurens tells him, too hazy to feel ashamed of it. “Stay here. My back feels _wonderful_.”

Hamilton makes no answer, only holds him tighter, and does not let him go.

 


End file.
